Don't Ask
by Ghostgirl468
Summary: I've had so much fun writing Sherlock fanfics that Ive decided to add to the bizzare things that happen in 221b. Read and review pretty please and hugs shall be given : . Basically, John learns why Sherlock has never had a long lasting flatmate before..
1. Monday: Always A Step AHead

Ok, this is another small Sherlock fanfic I've been working on, because I just love the bizarre amount of things that people write about happening in 221b and would like to add to the list :D

Hope all you Sherlock fans out there like them :D

_**Disclaimer:**_ I'm only saying this once, because I hate having to say that I do not, and never shall, own Sherlock :(

So, here goes, a week of John arriving home to a far-from-normal flat...Enjoy.

oOo

John had always been very good at confronting things. Be it people, situations or his worst fears, he had learned to stand up to them all in Afghanistan. But it was only after all of that, after he'd learned the art through and through, that he finally realised the best thing to do was just not to ask, and he had to learn this, the hard way. The really, _really_ hard way.

Monday – 

John had been at work early this morning, tired to the bone thanks to a hell of a lot of running after a serial killer who kept the fingers of his victims. According to Sherlock that was his big mistake. They had caught him eventually – well, Sherlock had done most of the catching – but it was nearing four in the morning when they finally collapsed through the door of 221b – although in this case, John did most of the collapsing . Sherlock had done the I'm-not-tired-I'm-going-to-play-the-violin thing. And he had been playing that bloody violin for three _bloody _hours.

Anyway so, John arrived home from the hospital, where he had spent one half of the day stopping himself from falling asleep, and the other half sleeping. He was looking forward to a nice relaxing cup of tea, and maybe something decent to eat, rather than the takeaways he had been living on for the past few weeks. Slumping through the door, he threw his bag against the wall, muttered a hello and headed for the fridge.

It was at that point that Sherlock – who hadn't been lying across the couch as John had assumed – leapt in front of him and stayed there, holding out his arms so John couldn't get past.

Not in the mood for any of his teasing, John tried to swipe him away. When it didn't work, he stamped his foot grumpily, "What are you doing?", he yelled.

Sherlock didn't flinch, just took a step forward, making John simultaneously step backwards. "Nothing. You just...can't go into the kitchen".

Mumbling a couple of swears under his breath, John covered his eyes, "Look, I'm just going to the fridge. I need a proper meal, not bloody chips!".

Sherlock shook his head, "Um...no...Definitely not, not the fridge". He shifted on his feet, and wasn't looking the doctor in the eye any more.

OK. Now John was getting suspicious. He looked up at the tall man with an expression he would make if he were addressing a child, "Why not?".

Sherlock lowered his head, "You just...can't...it's...defrosting?". He made it sound more like a question than a statement, and that gave it away.

"Sherlock". John tried his best to make eye contact. "What's in the fridge?"

Sherlock breathed out, "You don't want to know, trust me. Just...get a takeaway".

"No, Sherlock. I do want to know, because it has got to come out eventually, whatever it is, and I'll see it then and I just want to get it over with now and get something to eat". The strength in Johns voice was rising with every word, and Sherlock realised if he continued the argument it would go on all night.

Shrugging, the tall man stepped to the side. His gaze was still flickering around the room, and his fists clenched and unclenched, like he was getting ready to be shouted at...

Ignoring all of this, John stepped towards the fridge, bracing himself. "What is it then? One of your chemical experiments gone wrong? Or have you frozen that skull of you – ". John stopped in horror, because he had opened the door.

And lying on the shelf – the only shelf left because the others had been ripped out – was a head, staring back at him, ice forming around its face. It looked like something you'd see in a zombie movie.

He shut the fridge again, slowly, and didn't move.

Behind him, Sherlock sighed outwardly, a slight hint of annoyance in his voice, "Told you you didn't want to know".

oOo

Yes, yes, I know. The head situation has not only been run through in the actual program, but also several billion times in the fanfic universe. This is just my little spin, and I think it makes a nice start out to the week :)

Thanks for reading, leave a review please, and I shall give you a HUG! Also reviews boost my confidence that this may be good, so please do leave a comment :) thank you, much obliged :)


	2. Tuesday: Knives To See You

It's now Tuesday in Sherlock world, and personally I _hate_ Tuesdays. And John probably does now too.

One little note, I love my lovely readers/reviewers. You've made my day :)

Anyhoo...here's day two, and it's a little more original than the 'head-in-the-fridge' gag :D

Hope you LOVE :D:D

oOo

Tuesday – 

After yesterdays incident – of finding a _human head_ in the fridge where the food should be – John was edgier than usual and frankly nervous about what he would find upon entering the flat tonight.

But as he walked slowly up the stairs, his anxiousness faded as he thought over the probability of finding something worse than a decapitated head sitting next to the milk.

Entering, he looked around thoroughly before entering. Sherlock, to his relief, was draped across the couch, staring up at the ceiling peacefully. John shuffled over to his armchair and with a sigh, sank into it.

"Have you moved at all today?", he asked the motionless shadow.

There was a grunt in reply. A few movements and shuffling sounds. And then Sherlock was sitting up, staring at his hands. "Bored", he stated.

John nodded, "Yes, I'm sure you are. You should find something to do, a hobby, other than bring home chopped up body parts". He hesitated, and then stood up, approaching the man with a nervous twitch in his voice, "You haven't left any other limbs in the fridge have you?".

Sherlock looked up, "What? Oh, the head. No, it's the only thing in the fridge I assure you. I'm not completely insane you know". He was going to mention that there might be a leg in the freezer, but after John's reaction yesterday, thought best to leave it.

Chuckling light-heartedly, John nodded with relief and reached down to pick up the newspaper that was lying on the coffee table, when a knife suddenly fell down from above and landed, embedded in the table, a millimetre from John's hand. He froze, staring in disbelief at the scenario where his fingers had nearly been sliced off. It took a few moments for the shock to wear off, at which point Sherlock, holding his hands to his face, finally spoke. "Damn it", he muttered glancing at the ceiling.

John looked up too, still not moving his hand, to see at least a dozen knives thrown into the ceiling, some wavering where they were stuck.

Sherlock sighed in disappointment, "They were doing so well", he mumbled, clicking off the stopwatch in his hand.

Then he looked up at John and stated simply, "2 minutes, 37 seconds".

oOo

Show your sympathy for John/get a free hug by giving your love with REVIEWS.

Also if you want neither of these, review anyway, it makes me smile :):):) and smiles are **good.** :)

THANK YOU!


	3. Wednesday: What's in the cage?

Good news: ANOTHER CHAPTER! :D:D

Bad news: I'm disappearing for a week :( stupid surprise family weddings

So this is going to be my last update until sometime next Sunday :'(

It's wednesday now. And if this were me, I'm pretty sure I would have moved out straight after finding the head. Although with Benedict Cumberbatch there, maybe not...

Please enjoy!

oOo

Wednesday -

Ok. Ok. Don't worry, don't fret and _don't_ appear anxious. Step through the door, _carefully_, check the ceiling. Good, no knives. Check the fridge. Good, still only a head in there. Ok, it's fine, everything's fine, everything is totally safe and _fine_...

John jumped out of his skin when a sickening crack sounded from the window. He shot a look towards the source of the sound – which could only be described as a gunshot – and watched as Sherlock fired yet another bullet into the wall.

Glancing at said wall now, John's mind went round in circles as he tried to comprehend all of this.

Not only was Sherlock shooting _his_ gun into the wall, he was shooting, with perfect accuracy, a smiley face. A _bloody smiley __**face**_!

_Bang!_

"Evening John. How was work?"

_Bang!_

Snapping, John bounded across the room and snatched the gun out of his hand.

"What the **hell** do you think you're doing?".

Sherlock looked between John and the wall with a confused frown, "What does it look like?".

Muttering, John put the gun back on the table, "Leave the gun, and the wall, alone Sherlock. Take your boredom out on something else, like a case for instance! Or maybe you could use it to drive a complete tidy up of this room, it's like a hurricane hit!". John was going to go on, but the Consulting Detective had already walked past him, striding towards the stairs before leaping up them two at a time.

Two minutes later, John heard Sherlock's bedroom door bang shut.

He sighed, looking around. How had he gotten into this again? Oh yeah, because he's a easily excited fool who misses the thrill of war.

Mumbling to himself, John shoved some of the mess aside, trying to make it look slightly clearer. He then approached the windows, making to close the curtains when his eyes fell on a clear box sitting on the windowsill. He peered closer, not believing what he was seeing, and then stumbled backwards when he saw that it definitely was.

Clearing his throat, he stepped away a few more steps before shouting, pouring every ounce of anger into his tone, "Sherlock! Is that a TARANTULA!".

There was a pause from upstairs, before a muffled voice answered back loudly but calmly.

"No"

There was another moment of silence, in which John rolled his eyes. And then,

"Wait, _A_ tarantula? How many are there?".

John looked around sarcastically, before glancing back at the box, shaking his head, _Why the hell did he have a tarantula in the bloody living room?_. He cupped his hands around his mouth, "There's one you idiot! Did you not even look at what you were bringing in here!".

"Ah". It was indistinguishably Sherlock's tone of consideration and realisation.

There was another pause, and John suddenly felt a pit of dread filling in his stomach, Sherlock's next words already coming into his head. And sure enough, there they were, spoken out loud through the ceiling,

"John, I'd watch where you're stepping".

oOo

:D This was my favourite one to write so far :D I hope you have enjoyed it as much as me!

Review, pretty, pretty, pretty please (with a million cherries and your preferred sauce). Oh and I'll bring you back a souvinier :D

Also I'd like to say HUGE THANK YOUS to my lovely super amazing reviewers (and all you readers who DON'T review) and I am hugging you ALL right now :D:D see you in a week!


	4. Thursday: The Day That Went Too Far

I'MMM BACKKKK! :D

Sorry this took longer than I expected :( I was up at bloody half five this morning to go through to edinburgh university and my day has just been full of boring, mind-numbing lectures and getting lost :S And then when I got back I basically wrote this, and am now going to fall aslleep.

OH! I brought souviniers! Well, basically it's a keyring with a green sheep on it, and a piggy bank covered in snapshots of the place, but I think they're the absolute best things in the world :)

Anyway, we have some catching up to do. I am very, extremely, marvelously thankful, grateful and...happyfull...for all of my reviews, and all of my readers THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU and continue liking pretty please :)

So, with no time to lose, or waste, or chew on, here is THURSDAY! (a.k.a, the day things went way too far)

:D

Thursday -

By now, when John walked through the door of his flat after a long day at work, he felt like he was walking into a tank of piranhas. No, sharks. No piranhas _and_ sharks, and the odd, carnivorous, dinosaur.

It really was horrible, and the other, irritating, fact was that Sherlock didn't seem to give a damn about any of it. He didn't even realise the insanity of the things he was doing.

He had found the escaped tarantula, and thankfully Sherlock had stomped back down the stairs long enough to help him chase it back into the cage. Now, John had a padlock on the cage, and he kept the key. Sherlock could keep the creepy spiders in the flat if he wanted, but he was not getting the chance to let them loose for any experiments. Anyway, luck would have it that Sherlock would only make them more monstrous. And probably give them twenty legs and make them the size of the microwave.

So padlock on the spider cage. Check. Nothing falling from and/or stuck in the ceiling. Check. Head still in the fridge, with no accompanying body parts. Check. This was getting to be a daily check-list for John, and it wasn't helping that it was growing.

He saw immediately that Sherlock wasn't in, which made him feel a whole lot better, because it meant there were no experiments running at the moment, and so less chance of him getting chopped in two or poisoned.

Dropping the bag, he felt his legs buckle from exhaustion and made his way over to the couch – if anything was going to be dangerous, Sherlock wouldn't make it the couch that had been inaudibly claimed as his own. Slumping down into the cushions, he closed his eyes, hoping for some kind of rest.

That thought was stopped when an alarm started blaring loudly from the kitchen. He got up slowly and walked through to find the source, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw that Sherlock was indeed home.

He stood at the other end of the kitchen, by the _oven _of all things, several pots and pans littering the surface, and none of them filled with anything that was in the slightest bit ordinary. In one of the pans, a bright green liquid bubbled and boiled, hissing at the heat. In another lay a collection of dead beetles, are simmering gently in a puddle of water. And in the black pot, the one that Sherlock was holding in his left hand, tilting slightly. The one that was singed on the bottom and just ever so slightly on fire around the edges. In it were...No, he couldn't be serious...they were...

John held his hand up to his mouth, nausea suddenly overcoming him, "Oh my go-. Sherlock? Is that – Are they...Are they FINGERS?". With a brief glance his way, Sherlock cast him a look of puzzlement before nodding.

"Why are there human FINGERS in a POT on FIRE!"

"I was experimenting", Sherlock answered simply, and activated the fire extinguisher with his right hand, aiming it for the pot. As the smoke and flames cleared, John decided he didn't want to go any closer to the cooking fingers, so he moved around the other side of the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped him before he got to the counter, actual, genuine concern showing, "Um, if you were feeling slightly sick because of the fingers, you might want to stop there".

"Why, what else have you got in here?". A voice in the back of his head told John that that was **not **the right question to be asking, but he ignored it, curiosity and experience pushing him forwards.

Of course, he regretted it. And of course, Sherlock was right. He turned and fled the kitchen, running straight to the bathroom to be sick.

Sherlock paused from his 'cooking', and peered into the sink, a slightly sad expression on his face, "I wonder what's so bad about that?", he wondered, gazing fondly at the pair of fingerless (apart from the thumbs) hands that sat quite contently in their new home.

oOo

Hmm...Yes, now I'm thinking that the ending is slightly disturbed in some way, but for the life of me I don't know why.

Now I do realise the possibility of Sherlock actually using the oven is very unlikely, but then again unless he's going to eat the beetles then it's not for conventional use, so it is in fact VERY like Sherlock and I'm going to shut up and pretend I never raised this point.

Reviews...Reviews are like...cotton candy. Very, _very_ sweet... full of sugar...hard to actually eat without growing a cotton candy beard and...bright pink.

Yes...Anyway, I LOVE cotton candy, so please and please and please again show YOUR love through reviewing, and maybe John will get some cotton candy in the next chapter. Or maybe a toffee apple, they're nice...ACTUALLY, yes, if you like, please tell me which one you prefer (or suggest another) through your adored reviews, because now I've got a sweet tooth and am going to find some sugar, and after that I'm going to sleep for a week so I don't have time to make these decisions...

You're Opinions Are LOVED.


	5. Friday: Carnivalous Sherlock

Aaahhh!

You do all realise I love you to pieces right?

Thankyouthankyouthankyou reviewers, you just make me SOOOOOOO happy :D

I'll be honest, I was having slight writers block with this one (which you may have realised because it's been like over A MONTH), because it's a bit difficult to think of new bizarre things to happen when this idea has really been stretched very far already. But I've done my best, and can only hope that you approve :)

Also, I would like to add a magnificant thank you to the BBC, Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatis, for all crating, writing and acting out this Sherlock Holmes adaption because it has become my life obsession, and we are all in your debt :)

In advance (and if you haven't read the last chapter), my apologies, but today is not actually set in 221b, because thanks to a long-standing promise and my sweet tooth, we're all going to the carnival!

Toffee apple anyone?

oOo

_Friday - _

Friday. John Watson loved Fridays. He always had and always did. Even before the war, and certainly more so afterwards, simply because it reminded him he was still alive.

Of course his mood towards the day, like many other things, was dampened by Sherlock's casual, in-depth observations. Last week John had arrived home looking relieved and excited. His flatmate, noticing this, had wondered why he was so unusually happy. And when John had nothing else to say but, "Because it's Friday", a cold laugh had sliced him in two.

"It's only a day John. Nothing special. There have been plenty of Fridays before today and there will be plenty after, and even when we are both cold and still and lying in our graves it will still go on and on and people like you will forever be tricked into worshipping a day that is as common as everything else in this boring world".

With this lovely, cheery, speech floating around John's head, he was feeling slightly less happy than he usually did on a Friday, but he didn't let it bring him right down.

Because today _was_ special.

Today was unique and fantastic and the best day of John's life. Because today, he was not going home to 221b.

Straight after work, he was accompanying Sarah to the carnival none-the-less, and even though the idea seemed trivial and mundane compared to his new life, it was perfect. Especially after only barely surviving through Sherlock's 'welcome home' experiments over the past four days.

In fact, he decided, as the dizzying roller-coaster slowed down to a stop, he was perfectly happy with this change from things, even if there was the possibility of missing out on the start of a new case.

"Whoa...". Sarah collided with him, grinning from ear to ear as they both stumbled out of their seats. "That was brilliant! God, I haven't been on one of the since I was seventeen".

John was smiling broadly too, but only nodded in agreement, not quite trusting his stomach to keep his last meal down. In the back of his head, there was suddenly a sharp, cruel chuckle. _So dear doctor, you can stand trailing along to crime scenes and seeing murder victims, but you can't get through a simple ride without being sick?_. Shooing it away, he looked around, finally trusting his balance.

"Ok, what next then?".

With a softer, more mischievous smile, Sarah glanced around before pointing vaguely towards the stalls and dragging John by the arm. "Prizes", she laughed, placing him in front of a counter which was overflowing with stuffed toys and masks. The aim of the game was simple, a rounded man with a withered cap perched backwards on his head explained. Knock down all the pins with three tennis balls, and win a prize.

Testing his shoulder with a grim smile, and then lightening his expression for Sarah, John lifted the first ball, aimed it with all the concentration in his head, and threw it towards the targets. Much to his amazement, four of the ten pins flew off their perch and landed in a scurried mess on the floor.

Smiling with confidence now, John threw the second one, and was much happier when three more fell over.

Now with three left, and all the practise needed under his belt, he lined up his final shot, ready to reach for a prize, when -

"Hello John".

The cool, calmness of the familiar voice that had appeared out of nowhere, completely threw John, not just off balance, but into a state of panic, and the third ball flew through the air and smacked the carnival worker in the head.

Wincing and looking desperately apologetic, John whipped around to face Sherlock, who was standing _very closely_, and gazing casually at the two.

"Sherlo- ! What? What are you DOING HERE!"

The unflinching detective casually took a large bite out of the disintegrating candy floss and shrugged, his eyes shifting from side to side. Gulping, he lifted up the toffee apple in his other hand,

"Isn't it obvious John?".

Sighing irritably, John cast an apologetic look to Sarah and shoved his hands into his pockets, "No. Sherlock. No, it's not OBVIOUS".

There was that smirk again. God he could kill Sherlock sometimes, just for that smirk. "I am testing the sugar capacities between candy floss and toffee apples, and the difference in effects they have on the sweet tooth". He took a bite out of the toffee apple now, and chewed thoughtfully. "I was waiting for you, but when you didn't return home I decided you must already be here".

"How on earth did you know I'd be here?"

"Typical John. You are a typical human being, which means you couldn't help but be affected by the countless posters, advertisements and announcements that have covered the opening of the carnival. And, as you explained last week, it is Friday, so due to your limited brain capacity, and your increased happiness on Fridays, I realised you would want to be doing something special, with Sarah". He nodded in acknowledgement to Sarah before smiling back at John. "Hence, here you are".

"Yes". It wasn't a question or an answer, just a toneless statement, in which John wondered what exactly he was supposed to do now. His emotions were getting harder to control.

And then, surprisingly, Sherlock frowned, his brow furrowing slightly, before lifting in realisation. "You're angry".

Nodding vigorously, John remembered Sarah again and calmed himself, "Just slightly Sherlock. I'm on a date. With Sarah. It's Friday. Could you not just leave me alone FOR ONE DAY?".

Glancing between both of them, Sherlock seemed to shrink suddenly, and with a bleak nod, turned away, walking back into the midst of the carnival, the sweet food in both his hands forgotten.

Almost immediately, John felt guilty. Of course he hadn't meant to be that furious. He was a kind man, he hardly ever got angry when he could help it, and if he was, he rarely let his anger be shown. Deflating in one second, he felt slightly lost at what to do.

Sarah noticed the change in him too, and touched his arm, "John...I know you didn't mean that. Maybe you should go and say something".

Rather than argue, John nodded in defeat, and started to move away, when there was a loud explosion from the direction Sherlock had walked in, and smoke could soon be seen rising. Running towards it, John skidded to a halt when he saw a candy floss machine was on fire, bits of machinery lying all over the ground, and a furious looking worker was shouting and swearing at a tall dark figure in a candy floss dotted coat.

He caught a few snippets of the argument, mainly,

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Simple. I was testing whether your machine was able to reach the standards required for the perfect candy floss. Clearly not".

"Wha - ? You're paying for that!"

When Sarah reached his side, John was already turning away with a tired sigh on his face. But despite his best attempts to hide it, she also caught the light smirk in his warm eyes. Smiling at the scene herself, she linked her arm with his, and waited for him to speak. Eventually he did.

"I'm going to kill him if he brings candy floss into the flat".

oOo

…

I know, I know, I think I've lost it slightly, but my main guidelines for this episode were just Candy Floss, Toffee Apple, Carnival, Friday, Explosion. The rest is just nonsense to join it all together.

Ok so, reviews; always welcome, always loved, and Karma will always reward you :D

Thanks for reading - and hopefully enjoying. I'm debating doing the weekend too, but if I get any great ideas, then they shall be written! And I promise they will be up quicker than this one :S

OH and I would also like to add that there is a Have I Got News For You on BBC 1 in about two hours and BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH IS ON IT! Yes, that is the main reason I will be watching it. Felt I should mention it :D Ok...Thanks again... :)


	6. Saturday: Flood Warning

Second last chapter! I think the Friday chapter got me out of the writing block again, because I'm already half way through Sunday as well!

Anyway, you know the drill; read the disclaimer, cry that Sherlock is, and never will be, ours, ignore my rants, read the chapter, laugh if you like, SMILE, review :)

_**Disclaimer: **_!

Actually, this one is kind of "true-story" based. Well, yeah, sort of. Basically my friends house sort of almost flooded yesterday, because there was bread stuck in the pipes? – Don't ask me how the hell bread got anywhere near the sink! - and she left the tap running when she went out. Silly girl. But thanks for the inspiration! Although instead of using bread – which I still can't understand – I've gone for the more sensible option of brain matter. Anyway, continue...

oOo

Saturday - 

Saturday. Saturday's were good. Because it meant John wasn't at work. Which meant he wouldn't have to come home and find the kitchen on fire, or a brain in the kettle. Oh how he loved the weekend.

And – what could only be described as good karma finally getting back to him – Lestrade was standing in the flat, a new case in his hand. John did more than jump for joy – he practically hugged the detective off of his feet with a huge grin.

They got a cab to the crime scene, and John could feel Sherlock's boredom lifting, which meant less danger for him.

But then, see, the problem had been when John got a text, from Sarah, saying it was some kind of emergency. He was slightly torn between going to help her, and staying at the scene, but a surprisingly thoughtful Sherlock – that should have been the first warning – told him to go, that he could handle the case himself.

It hadn't been an emergency, not really. It had simply been Sarah trying to get John to meet her parents and – knowing how much of a danger-obsessed freak he was – had used "emergency" to get him there. That, plus the fact that her parents absolutely hated him, had **not** helped John's mood.

Nor had the thought upon arriving back at the flat, that he could hear that Sherlock was upstairs. Alone.

Again, not helping, had been the slow but steady flow of water trickling – no, _pouring_ – down the stairs.

Taking the steps two at a time, John burst through the door, hearing the shout too late, and was nearly thrown back down when a wave of water, nearly as high as his waist, swept past him.

Sighing miserably, he searched around the room to see what he could salvage, and found a very acrobatic Sherlock leaping from chair to table to chair, collecting _his_ most important items and placing them on every high surface he could find.

It was quite a sight. One that froze John's anger for a couple of seconds. But then, nope, there it was again. His eyes flared.

"SHERLOCK!". The detective flinched, wobbling suddenly from the arm of his chair and trying to keep his balance with the clutter of objects wrapped in his arms. Then he looked up delicately,

"Yes John?".

"What the hell have you done to the flat?", the doctor snapped, wading against the current of water to find the source. "And what happened to the case?".

Doing what he thought was helpful, Sherlock smiled and nodded towards the kitchen, "The case? Blah, boring, solved it in less than a minute...The sink, uh...jammed...possibly with brain matter...I wouldn't touch it if I were you. You were exceptionally squeamish about the fingers so you better stay away. I'll...I'll fix it".

"Fix it!". Although his voice remained the same volume, John had stopped moving towards the sink at the words "brain matter". "Yes, I can see you're doing a good job too!", he waved his hands at Sherlock, who was now grasping onto the lampshade for balance, and gazing angrily at the water.

Then John chuckled, as he realised why Sherlock was acting like this. "Sherlock...? Are you _afraid_ of the water?".

Glaring eyes pierced his and he stopped laughing. But the smile was still there.

"Swimming is a waste of time John, so I never bothered learning. And since I do not know how to swim it is logical to have an irrational fear of water. I didn't predict this amount of water would overflow, and so I hardly came prepared", he motioned at his suit.

John couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "Ok...Sherlock, it's – it's like two feet deep! You don't need to be able to swim, you just need to stand!".

Gingerly, Sherlock frowned and shook his head, "No thank you. I'll just climb over to the sink. We have a number of furniture items that are not wet, it won't take long". With that he began the obstacle course again, clambering first onto John's armchair, and then reaching with one long leg towards the kitchen table.

Stifling his next words, John walked over to the sink and turned off the tap, before taking in the new swimming pool that was their flat. "Well, you're cleaning all of this up, including the brain matter, and...Oh Jesus...Sherlo - ...W-Where the hell are those spiders, and the – and the hand!".

As John began leaping out of the water in terror, Sherlock looked around in vague curiosity, "Hmmm, they must have fallen in...It will be interesting to see the results of the hand spending so much time in water...maybe not the spider so much, but the effects of drowning would be intriguing...".

Not waiting for the results, John yelled and then ran through the door and upstairs.

Sherlock, who had barely noticed, kept looking, "Oh no, wait - ". He reached onto the slightly damp living room table and picked up a cage with books stacked on top. Lifting it closer he peered inside and grinned, before shouting upwards through the ceiling, "DON'T WORRY JOHN! THE TARANTULA'S DIDN'T DROWN!".

After a few minutes of silence, he shrugged, stepped down into the slowly decreasing water level – thanks to the door John had left open – and began his exciting search for the hand.

oOo

Don't worry, Sherlock finds the hand, eventually. But he just kind of leaves it where it is because by the time it's found, it has sort of merged into the wall and is growing a particularly interesting mold around it. So...

Yes, Saturday = check.

So the last chapter, and the last day, will be up as soon as it possibly can be, but don't worry, I'll make sure to leave enough time for you to review :)

Thanks for reading :)


	7. Sunday: A Smashing Finale

This is actually quite short :/ I didn't realise until I'd uploaded it...oh well, the story is done now, in my head, so I can't add anything to it.

Truthfully it's not as "Exciting" as the other chapters, because it's finally time for John to realise his mistake, but hopefully it is still interesting enough to be a good read, and I hope you all like it.

It's actually a Sunday now, when I'm writing this, although it might not be when I've uploaded it so ignore that...

Anyway, all I can say is, READ!

oOo

Sunday -

In the long tradition of time, Sunday's are, and always were, supposed to be days of relaxation. Of rest. Of no screaming, near heart attacks, blades flying at you, explosions, yelling, or fear of dying. Sunday's are quiet.

John was _not_ expecting a Sunday. Or a Staurday, or even a Friday. From now on, he was going to treat every day like a Monday. That awful day of the week that you dread, but at least you are prepared for the worst to happen. Yes, in the history of being prepared, a Monday was at the top of the list.

He had gotten up relatively early - around eight - to sneak out and buy some milk; they were in short supply - as always - and his flatmate was hardly one to even think about shopping.

The reason he had been inclined to 'creep' out of the flat was because Sherlock, for once, was actually in his room, probably not asleep, but more likely lost in trains of thought.

Around an hour after he had left, John tiptoed back inside. He had been caught up a bit, meeting Mike Stamford on his way out of the store and drawn into a twenty minute long conversation on how things were going in the new flat - the summary of John's answer had been "I'm never bored" with a natural rolling of his eyes.

Now, after talking abouot it again, his uncertainty was back. Carefully, John's eyes searched every inch of space. He flung the curtains open, letting bright light into the room so that he could see everything. At every creak of the floorboard, ever car that sped past the window, John flinched. When he made it to his armchair safely, he did a sweep of the floor - and the ceiling - and every other area around the chair, before cautiously sitting down.

A few minutes later, Sherlock walked down the stairs, noticed him with a moment of faltering surprise, and looked back up to the bedrooms.

He was just about to speak, when John stood, his 'stern' expression taking over, "Ok, the tarantula's are still both locked in their cage, the head is still in the fridge - I think - the hand is still in the sink, there are no knives on the ceiling, there's no candy floss in sight, and there is no _brain matter_ jamming any of the plumbing therefore no chance of flooding. I don't want anything, _anything_ to leap out at me, fall on me, make me feel sick to the skin, or drench me, and now I am going to sit here, with a mug of tea, and read todays paper". He took a deep breath, feeling better now that he'd rattled off his safety list to Sherlock, and smiled in exhaustion.

Maybe that would make him think twice.

Sherlock didn't answer. He _looked _like he was taking it all in, but then, this was the worlds only Consulting Detective, who could tell a pilot from his left thumb. He could almost definitely pass off a simple "interested" expression.

There was a glance, sliding warily to the side to glance at a tray that lay on the kitchen table, full of, what looked like, some kind of melted cakes. John made a mental note not to touch any of them.

And then there was a thud suddenly, loud and clear, from upstairs. It came from directly above where John was standing so he knew it was coming from Sherlock's room, which was slightly more comforting. But then it was followed by a loud crash and he couldn't help but wince ever so slightly. Sherlock meanwhile looked upwards at the ceiling with a piercing glare, as if that would shut whatever it was up. When another thump sounded, he looked back down at John, his well known stone expression staring at him, but the edge of a frown curling around his lips, as he knew by now how curious, and equally temper-mental, John was.

"Don't ask", he said, the small wavering anxious tone hidden in his voice.

And for once, John rubbed his forehead, closed his eyes tight, thinking over ever time in the past week he had demanded to be told what was going on, and every time he had decided he absolutely definitely _certainly_ needed to know...and he sat back down on his chair, deciding that suddenly, he didn't really want to know anything after all...

...Even when there was a sound of glass smashing and something _alive_ fell right past the living room window with a short scream...

oOo

And that...is it...

A whole week, done and dusted. Well, not dusted, that was a lie. But it's definitely done. Yay! :D

I would of, course, love to never stop writing but I think it's time Sherlock was given another case, a _proper_ case. One that doesn't have the possibility of killing John.

So all I can say is thank you much for reading, and I hope, and wish, that everyone enjoyed it.

Please be the kind and amazing people you are and leave reviews with your thoughts, because they are happy and everyone wants to be happy, and it's FINISHED!

:)

- Ghostgirl468 x


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